


A Stained Conscience

by inkedinserendipity



Series: And Taking Names [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7348468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedinserendipity/pseuds/inkedinserendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange Knight appears in the halls of Camelot, demanding an audience with Arthur Pendragon in the form of a duel. But Morgana, now firmly on the side of Camelot's Prince, has other ideas. And she's not going to let Arthur pick up that glove - even if it means she has to accept the challenge herself. </p><p>If you'd like to suggest any further plots to expand upon, feel free to drop by my tumblr at inkedinserendipity and leave a message. There's a chance your idea would strike me and end up as part of the series!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stained Conscience

**Author's Note:**

> It's recommended that you read Part 1 before Part 2. But in quick summary, Taking Names is an AU in which Merlin divulges the secret of his magic to Morgana early on; he tells her when she first suffers from nightmares and returns, heartbroken, from the Druid camp. Afterward, she demands to help him when he encounters threats to the kingdom and to Arthur. Together, they may have the power to alter destiny.

The glove practically dents the floor as it skitters toward Arthur. It's heavy, Merlin notes distractedly. Lined with alloyed silver and steel and not a speck of bendable aluminum to be found. Metalworking on par with that of Guinevere, Camelot’s best. 

Their armor is much the same - hard and unyielding. The person inside that armor must doubtless be accustomed to searing warmth and brutal conditions, if they lug themself around in burning armor all day - the heat of Camelot's sun at midday is not unforgiving. The flecks of dirt not yet polished off their boots tells Merlin that this knight, whoever they are, has been riding hard and hard. The muck accumulated on their pointed toes is the product of several days' concentrated journey, stopping to polish nothing but the sword and the right gauntlet. Not the left, Merlin notes - that one is dulled with callouses of scratched metal - only the right. 

“Who are you?” Uther’s harsh voice demands, cutting off Arthur’s stoop to pick up the glove mid-motion. To their left, Morgana stands up. “What quarrel do you possess with my son?”

The knight does not answer, but merely crosses their hands - one pale and gauntlet-free, the other wreathed in armor - over the hilt of their blade, tucked comfortably against their hip. Uther opens his mouth to ask again, but Arthur cuts him off. “It is all right, Father,” he says respectfully. Morgana steps in front of the table, right behind Arthur. “I am sure that this knight will explain their reasoning after the acceptance of the challenge.” 

“You have no idea who they are, Arthur,” Uther protests in an undertone, hissing the words to prevent them from reaching the ears of all but the closest of Knights, Sir Leon. Sir Leon doesn’t look surprised at all by Uther’s expression of emotion, just regards the intruder with hardened eyes. 

“It matters not. They have issued a challenge,” Arthur says, fully aware of the challenger’s eyes burning onto his chestplate even through their visor, “and I will accept it.” 

Arthur begins to kneel to accept the challenge, but before he can retrieve the gauntlet from Camelot’s smoothed stone floors, Morgana intervenes. She snatches the gauntlet away from him, diving in one lithe motion to scoop it up before Arthur can grasp its wrist. 

“I accept your challenge,” Morgana announces in a clear, defiant voice. 

A wave of shock ripples throughout the room, starting with a sucked-in breath from the fat nobles sitting to Morgana’s right and spreading through the lower gentry standing on unsteady knees to her left. _Both_ of Gaius’s eyebrows raise, an expression of extreme shock on his face, and Merlin feels kind of weak, himself. When he’d said he’d let her protect Arthur, this is not what he’d meant. Arthur can probably take them, whoever they are - he’s the best swordsman in the land. But Morgana’s a Lady, she's never had any formal training with swordfighting. Why would Morgana accept the challenge? A ploy, maybe? Or does she See something?

As if his subconscious were eager to answer his question, his magic stirs through his fingers, whispering the sick, off-beat and twisted rhythm of the Knight’s magic. Unconsciously, Merlin tucks his magic behind an unassuming demeanor, praying that years of practice will keep his true abilities from her notice. 

A quick glance to his side shows him that Morgana doubtless feels the challenger’s magic too, given the sweat sheening on her forehead and the serious expression on her face. It’s a far cry from the sarcasm and razored lilt with which she normally faces challenges. 

Uther stands from his throne in one swift motion, face already turning crimson. “Morgana, sit down,” he commands. 

“I cannot,” she replies evenly, jaw locking as she stares down Arthur’s intended opponent. “I have accepted a challenge. Now we must negotiate terms.” 

“Morgana, this is madness!” Arthur cries from her side, making an aborted motion as if he wanted to wrest both gauntlet and challenge from her hands. Uther clamps down on his shoulder with one hand, drawing level with Morgana on the raised dais. Behind them both, the sweeping red banners of Camelot stir faintly, making the golden dragon embossed on the seal shimmer and breathe. 

“Give that glove to Arthur,” Uther orders her, his voice trembling with the effort of keeping his temper in check.

Morgana tears her gaze from the Knight standing, motionless, across the Hall, to glare at her King. “I also cannot do that, as you well know. By the Code, I have picked up the gauntlet.” She gives it a little shake, as if to remind him that she picked it up. “I must be the one to face this knight in combat.” 

“The Code does not apply to you, Morgana.” 

“It applies to me, just as each citizen of Camelot serves and lives and dies with honor,” Morgana spits, some of her anger flashing onto her face. 

Arthur stares at her as if he’s never seen her in his life. Or maybe he’s seeing her differently, now - the way she seems to tower over even the throne, the way she keeps her chin parallel to the ground. Or how, when she steps from the dais around the throne to level with her attacker, she shifts, ever-so-slightly, to put her chest between the knight’s hands and Arthur’s throat. 

“This is different,” Uther protests vehemently. “You are not -”

“Why?” Morgana bites. “Because I am a woman, or because I am your ward? Might I remind you that you have sent many closer to me into battle, including Gorlois!” 

“That has nothing to do with this!” Uther roars, finally snapping at the mention of Gorlois. “I will not permit this duel to take place. Morgana, sit down.” 

“I will not sit. I will stand, and you will not make me move.”

“Morgana,” Uther hisses dangerously, seemingly unaware of his huge audience. “You will take your seat at my side. Arthur is more than capable of accepting their challenge.” 

“You would have me sacrifice my honor for your fear?” She brandishes the gauntlet at him as if she wanted to smack him across the face with it. Honestly, Merlin wouldn’t put it past her. “You would rather Arthur face this danger? No. I take up this mantle, and I do it to protect my Prince.” 

For once, Uther is clearly at a loss for words. “I would not have _you_ fight in his place! Morgana, you - ” even Merlin can hear the _are too dear to me_ that Uther would never say “ - you cannot do this!”

“I choose this fight for myself, and not even you can rescind this decision.” 

“Morgana,” Uther tries to say, but it seems he’s run out of arguments. “Sit!” he bellows. 

“Morgana,” Arthur tries in a pacifying tone, but Morgana turns on him too, nearly spitting in her rage. He turns, wisely, and stands next to his father with his hands crossed behind his back, murmuring unintelligible words. It takes time, but the frothing rage drains out of Uther’s face under Arthur’s words, replaced by a mere simmering anger which, Merlin supposes, is about the best Morgana could have hoped for. 

Morgana takes a deep breath, forcibly trying to stop the incensed trembling in her arms, before turning back to her challenger, who’d watched the proceedings with eerie silence. Not a clank sounded throughout the room - the knight, whoever they are, seems to be immune to needing movement, to keeping blood circulating through their knees, to extreme discomfort. Maybe that’s a magic thing Merlin hasn’t learned yet. 

Once Morgana regains control over her facial features, schooling them back to textbook neutrality, she speaks. "Might I enjoy the pleasure of meeting my challenger face-to-face?" Morgana asks, formality re-entering her voice. 

The knight cocks their helmet at her, moving their head in a manner almost serpentine, their neck swaying back and forth as they contemplate her - this strange, finely dressed noble holding their gauntlet to her side as if she were born with armor in her skin. 

(In a way, Merlin supposes, she was.) 

Then the head stills, and for a long moment, the two combatants engage in a staring contest, the purpose of which Merlin cannot discern. Finally, the outcome seems determined when a decidedly feminine voice says "I will not deny the Lady her due," and off comes the helmet, and out cascades blonde locks. 

Morgana emotes at the revelation of her challenger as a woman about as much as she does during another administration of Gaius's remedies - interested for the sake of her life, but utterly unsurprised by the form which his remedies would assume. "I have no quarrel with you, Lady Morgana," the cultivated voice says, inclining her head with dignity toward Morgana. "The challenge was not intended for you." 

Though Morgana maintains a perfect mask of calm, her response tastes of fire. "Yet I would air my quarrels with you, for intending harm to the Prince." 

The woman watches her with a look of faint amusement. “Interesting. Never,” the knight begins, voice laced with a small laugh, “could I have foreseen this. I had no idea you were so close to the Prince.”

“There are many things you do not know about me,” Morgana replies coolly. 

“Of course not,” replies the knight in a voice that implies exactly the opposite, as one would humor a small child. Merlin watches as the words rankle across Morgana’s skin, prickling against her pride in a thousand painful ways. The knight shrugs carelessly, as if unaware of the ire she has provoked. “Well, I suppose your fight would work just as well. After all, we each have our secrets.” 

With those parting words and a sly glance in Morgana’s direction, the knight departs, tossing a careless “Tomorrow at noon, then. A fight to the death. Swords only,” over her shoulder. Had Merlin not been staring directly at Morgana’s face the whole time, he doubtless would have missed the mind-numbing terror that flashes across her face, the sudden lack of blood in her cheeks and the clench of her fists. 

 

“Why would you do that?” Merlin bursts as soon as the council is dismissed. Already, citizens of Camelot are flooding from the room. The crowd seems to accumulate more and more densely with every step Morgana takes, turning their heads to stare at Morgana as she passes, paying little heed to the gangling figure tripping over his own feet to keep up with her. Arthur’s got to be looking for him. But Arthur’s lived in Camelot his entire life, he can find his own way to his rooms. “You _know_ Arthur can defend himself in sword fights, that's about the only thing he has skill in, why would you accept the challenge? That was dumb!”

“Merlin, stop.” Morgana keeps up her long pace, winding expertly through the corridors. Servants and nobles alike scatter out of her path, falling away like bread crumbs from the break of a loaf. Most of them bow their heads. She pays them little mind. Merlin thinks they’re bowing a bit more deeply than usual, but he can’t be entirely sure - he’s more focused on not confusing his heel for his toes and tumbling onto his face.

“He's a _prat_ , sure, but he's not worth a fight to certain death! And besides that, you've pissed off Uther, and that can go nowhere but the wrong direction -”

“Merlin!” she snaps, then takes a deep breath. “You know just as well as I that the knight has magic,” she hisses in a discreet undertone, staring forward to disguise the fact that she's talking. Still, even several minutes’ walk from the council room, hundreds of eyes track her progress down the halls of the castle. 

Merlin nearly trips over a flight of steps trying to keep up with her purposeful strides. “That doesn't mean you can beat her! In fact, that makes your odds even worse!”

Morgana nearly trips him as he squeezes past her through a tight turn, hands clenched into fists and swinging briskly at her sides. “You don’t need to remind me.”

“Do you even have a plan?” 

She pauses, clenching her jaw. “No.”

“So you accepted a fight to the death on a flare of anger,” Merlin summarizes disbelievingly. 

“Call it a protective instinct,” she growls. 

Merlin gapes after her for a moment, her admission startling his legs into nearly tripping him, before bounding after her. In front of him, light glows from between threads of Camelot-crimson curtain. “How are you planning to win, then? Are you just going to let yourself die? Because you don’t need me to tell you, that’s a very bad plan.” 

“Of course I don’t intend to just let myself _die_ , Merlin. I might, however, need your -”

Her voice stops abruptly, and so does she. Caught unawares, Merlin nearly rams into her back. “Morgana?”

“Good evening,” says the Knight’s voice. Merlin jumps, whipping toward the sound. 

“Good evening,” Morgana says cordially.

The Knight unfolds herself from the doorframe, sheathing her dagger back into her belt and flicking off her nails, where she was filing them to perfect points. The tops of her nails, Merlin notices, are drenched in blood-red dye. A shade easily mistakable for Camelot colors, for anyone unused to having Camelot’s brand of red burned into their eyes at all waking moments. Her nails are a darker hue than Camelot’s, nigglingly similar to a seal Merlin can’t place. Surely she hadn’t diluted actual blood to paint her fingers.

The Knight wraps those polished nails around the door handle behind her and opens the door, gesturing grandly inside. “Please, Morgana. Follow me.”

Merlin eyes the Knight warily, flicking his gaze between the door handle and the still-armed woman smiling at them. That door was locked when Morgana had departed. 

Covering her brief hesitation with quick steps, Morgana strides into the room, gesturing Merlin to follow behind her back. The Knight watches him with narrowed, questioning eyes, but Merlin keeps his head bowed, the picture of humility. He ducks as fast as he can through the threshold and into a corner of the room, hoping to remain inconspicuous.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, the Knight’s smile returns, seemingly warm and hospitable. Morgana returns the Knight’s expression with a forced grin of her own. Merlin wonders if the other woman can see the slight tremor of uncertainty around the corner of Morgana’s lips. 

“Well, I must confess,” the Knight sighs, after a slight pause, during which she installs herself in the center of the room, hands resting confidently by her sides. “I do not truly wish to fight you tomorrow, Morgana. It is not you whom I would like to destroy.”

“I will not rescind my challenge,” Morgana replies evenly, assuming a stance much like the Knight’s own.

“I know,” her challenger says, amused. “I can see this much in your eyes and your aura. Tell me, Morgana. How do you plan to beat me? Will you wield your gifts against mine?”

Something of Morgana’s fear flits across her face. The Knight’s gaze grows sharp and twisted. “Oh, do not think I believe you a fool. Not as the men of your court do. I know that you have magic, and much of it. I can see it. That you have hid it for so long is a remarkable feat, and I would much rather you an ally than an enemy. Why do you fight?”

Morgana swallows, nearly imperceptibly. “I believe in Camelot, and what it will come to be.”

Her opponent studies her with steady eyes. When she speaks, her words are careful and measured. “How can you not hate everything that Uther is?” 

“I do,” Morgana confesses unflinchingly. “I despise Uther and what he represents. For what he’s done.” Her voice is chilling, steely. From his position with his head bowed in the corner of the room by the door, Merlin can’t help but flinch from this tension-laden conversation. He doesn’t dare speak up. “But I do not fight for Uther.”

“Then for what do you fight?” the other woman asks, and neither Merlin nor Morgana mistake the lilt in her voice for genuine curiosity. Briefly, he wonders how good she would be at chess.

If they were to play, Merlin bets, she’d have his king in ten moves. 

“I fight for Arthur.” 

“For the King’s whelp?” the woman repeats, unable to keep incredulity out of her voice. “You think his reign will be different from his father’s? Tell me, Morgana - if you were to be ousted for the witch you are, do you really think your dear Prince would spare you?” 

Morgana tilts her head, giving the question the thought it merits. “Yes.” 

“Insane. He has carried out the orders of his father before without question. Especially in the area of magic, he will always do the same, uncaring of who ends up on the pyre.”

“Arthur is not his father. He will see the error in Uther’s ways.”

The Knight laughs, clapping her hands - one bare, one sheathed in armor - together in entertainment. “How arrogant, to think he would change because of you.” 

“Perhaps I am arrogant. But in this case, my vanity does not cloud my judgement.” 

“You cannot be serious. Are you so deluded, so naive, as to think that the King or his brat son would make an exception for you? They hate magic above all else.”

“Naivete was believing the King would let me live in peace with the Druids. I am no longer naive, and no longer innocent. However, I can See things for what they really are. For example - Uther is a cruel and unjust King, and does not deserve the throne. Magic is neither inherently good nor evil; its outcomes depend only on the user. Arthur will be a better King. Once he, too, can see clearly, he will come to terms with the neutrality of magic, and allow it to flourish.” 

“You are so lost,” the woman murmurs, shaking her golden hair, eyeing Morgana with a combination of pity and anger. “So lost, and so confused. Putting your faith in the wrong people.” 

“And yet you condescend without justification,” Morgana retorts, anger quickening her words. 

“What more justification do you need than what is before your own eyes?” the woman bites off a laugh. “The smoke from the pyres of Uther’s hatred rise weekly, seeping through your bedroom chambers. Surely you can wake and smell your own destruction brewing in this very castle!” 

“His son sees clearly where he does not.” 

“His _son_ has killed hundreds of our number. Do you not recall the countless Druid camps he has ruined? Besieged? Left its people for dead?” 

Morgana doesn’t have an answer for that.

“Well, then,” the Knight says into the silence. “We will test this conviction.” The woman crosses the room in several rapid steps, face abruptly mere inches from Morgana’s. Her tone is low, sibilant and predatory. All traces of a grin have vanished from her face, leaving behind icy fury and small vestiges of indignance. “We shall see - tomorrow, upon your defeat, I will reveal your identity to the Court.” 

Morgana’s face stills in fear. The woman steps backward, expression softening. Again, she draws herself straight, and when she speaks her voice is impossibly sympathetic. “I am sorry, Morgana. I did not wish to see you die in this way. I intended originally to plead your help. You could be a great asset against the evil that threatens our kind.”

“This sounds a great deal more threatening than pleading,” Morgana bites sarcastically.

“Please, Morgana,” the Knight pleads, nearing on begging. “Think upon this. Arthur is not worth your life.” 

Morgana allows herself three seconds to compose herself, fighting down the urge to run her hands through her hair in distress, and meets the woman’s open gaze with a harsh glare of her own. “Already, there are people who know me for who I am, in Camelot. They give me hope that one day, our kingdom might accept all. I trust them above all others. I trust in the future we will bring about. And I will certainly not join with someone whose name I do not even know over them.”

The Knight shakes her head through Morgana’s conviction, disdain clouding her clear eyes. “I am disappointed,” she says eventually. “But if you ever change your mind - should you survive tomorrow - remember the name of Morgause. Should you find yourself in need of aid, Morgana, I will come.” 

With one final, seemingly sincere bow, the warrior named Morgause turns and shuts the door soundlessly behind her with darkened bloodred fingers. 

 

The morning dawns clear and bright. Rumors shake through the castle that the King had taken ill. Indeed, Uther is not present on the combat field when noon comes; instead, Arthur sits in his father’s throne. He presides over the commencement of the duel, face unreadable. Merlin stands not by his side, as he should be, but in the place of the peasants. He keeps one hand around Gwen’s shaking shoulders and the other beneath his cloak, clenched around an old pendant from Gaius - a magical reserve, should fear and anxiety exhaust Merlin before Morgana becomes victor of the fight. 

The fight splits evenly into two halves. For all of Morgana’s secretive training with the blade, she is no match for the battle-hardened Morgause. Her life is saved barely, several times, by the lightening and quickness enchantments upon which she and Merlin had agreed the previous night. During the first half, Morgana leaps out of the way more than she strikes back, and flushes with exhaustion far too quickly. It seems Morgause is guaranteed victory, and even the woman herself grows cocky with such an apparent path to winning. Already, Merlin is sure, she is formulating the best words with which to bring Morgana’s life crashing down around her. 

Righteous anger gives both Merlin and Morgana strength. At Morgana’s signal, the tide of the battle turns astoundingly quickly. In fact, all the forces of nature appear to unite by Morgana’s side. The sun glints off her blade with the motion of her fingers, a flick of her ever-brown eyes (eyes that remain unsuspicious, free from all danger of magic) summons raucous gusts of wind, water coagulates and rusts Morgause’s blade at a speed hundreds of times faster than normal when Morgana digs her heel into the ground and taps against the grass. At the final blow, Morgana strikes not at her opponent’s throat, but to a patch of the grass toward the side, allowing them to concede defeat with all organs sealed inside their body. 

It is with a shining combination of joy and relief that Arthur pronounces Morgana the victor, holding her hand toward the sky, both of their faces flushed with victory.


End file.
